


Hound of Hell, You Cry

by damselindisguise



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banshee Lydia Martin, Banshee Powers, Banshees, Eichen | Echo House, F/M, Gen, Hellhounds, I Ship Everything Don't Hate Me, Two Shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:04:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damselindisguise/pseuds/damselindisguise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hound of Hell, you cry- Devil on your back, I will never die." --- Scott and the others won't be able to find her here by the Nemeton, not soon, she knows, but Jordan Parrish, the Hellhound, the one who knows deep down, always, where this accursed stump is, with its hellish power- if she calls to the Hellhound, the noble servant of the druid wood, then he will be able to come running, come and save her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hound of Hell, You Cry

**Author's Note:**

> ((Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or the song Dragula by Rob Zombie, which is where the title of this work comes from. I make no money from this two shot, either.))

Lydia Martin can hardly breathe, lying on the dusty forest floor, the inky, muddled flavor and scent of dirt, clean and yet filthy, filtering into her nose- she is reliving horrible things, running nude through the woods, losing time, wishing for anything else, digging Peter Hale from the floorboards of the Hale House and breathing life into him- she doesn't want to think of these things again, but she also doesn't want to relive the stinking smell of mercury drenched, tar stained chimaeras coming alive before her as her punctured neck seeped and Theo Raeken gloated, all his rage bleeding through all the same, teeth bared and seething with rage- she understands, implicitly. He had a plan- either it didn't go right, or it went too right. He's pissed, in either case, and that's all the worse for her- especially when he declares the chimaera his pack and him their alpha. 

So she lies there, gasping for air, choking on the scent of the soil, and wishing Theo would just walk a little damn faster, because she doesn't want to lie here all night, where Parrish, the Hellhound, brought the chimaera to lay, their final resting place, before Theo dragged them back, not so much kicking and screaming as mud-minded, from the dead, with whatever that was he took from the tube with the creep and his watching eyes within. Lydia would like much better to not consider the overwhelming urge to move closer to the Nemeton, to feel the pure death emanating from it, an aura of darkness, the bodies not yet left totally, residual effects still lingering so powerfully over it that her mind is still so inexplicably pulled to it, though she can see quite clearly the dead have risen- like Lazarus, from their fiery damnation, their cursed selves have come, from life to death and life again. 

She watches until their shiny-dried forms fade, Theo's set, wide, enraged shoulders before them, until they aren't even winking spots in the distance, until there is nothing but the faint wind, even that impeded by the stump beside her, and then she moves, slowly, deliberately, raising her sore head on her cut neck, wishing it didn't hurt so bad- wishing her mouth didn't taste like the ass-like stench of the dirt closer to the tree, the reeking of the worst soil she's ever known- that of everlasting, undying, of returning death and fading life holding on yet longer.

Her mind twists, aimless, as she sets there, and she'd put her back to the Nemeton, but that just seems like a bad idea for some reason, so she just wavers there in the dirt, too exhausted to drag herself any closer to the surrounding trees- they are caught in an odd clearing, the sky above and yet concealed by brambles all at once, like some ethereal half-world; maybe the Nemeton is not one place, but a shifting one, slowly creeping all throughout the forests of Beacon Hills. In any case, she's here, staring at it, and she can still feel the creeping feeling of the dead once before her, despite their now clear absence, and it feels like her throat is closing up and she thinks of when she kissed Stiles to end his panic attack, wishes someone, anyone, would do that to her now, as her skin prickles, hair raised, neck throbbing, her fingers cold in the California night.

She shouldn't feel like this- she should get up and go, she's stronger than this, she thinks, chiding herself, but everyone needs help sometimes, right? Sometimes, everyone needs a duke or duchess to come sweeping in to the rescue, bringing the warm flames to bask them back to health- she knows, then, who to call out to- Scott and the others won't be able to find her here by the Nemeton, not soon, she knows, but Jordan Parrish, the Hellhound, the one who knows deep down, always, where this accursed stump is, with its hellish power- if she calls to the Hellhound, the noble servant of the druid wood, then he will be able to come running, come and save her.

Lydia Martin hasn't screamed so loud in a long time, but she does now, unleashing a shriek that must be heard round the world- fitting, considering. It is an echoing thing, the space filling up harshly with it, her throat burning and searing as if the flesh may be tearing beneath her harsh vocal cords, a cruel accordion's yelp as it is drawn wrong, a dog wishing to be let free. She screams to the heavens and to hell and to everything in-between, until she's gasping for air, breaths ragged and tight, her lungs laboring, her throat sore and tasting faintly rusty, like blood, and she feels the dirt and thinks of lying down again- but she can't take that, no, she can't recline into the disgusting soil, no matter what.

So she stays there, anchored shakily up by her own stubborn spine's resolve, until she hears boots crunching quickly in the dirt and leaves, and Parrish appears alongside her, a spot of soot still on his face, a line of it along the side of his brow, and he is trying to talk to her- "Lydia, I heard you scream- are you alright? Lydia? Are you okay? Lydia? Do I need to call Scott? What's going on?"

Then he sees the absent bodies and says, urgently, "Lydia, what happened to the bodies?"

"Theo," she croaks out, voice raspy and sore, throat ragged from her shriek, "Theo gave them something and they- they went with him. They're his pack, now, all of them, Hayden, Corey, Lucas, Tracy, all of them."

"Okay," Jordan says, going into cop mode, "We need to get you out of here, Lydia. We need to get you to the station so you can tell the Sherrif about this and we can organize something to stop this. The pack, it's... not in the best condition right now."

He's dragged her over by the tree and she hadn't even noticed until now, realizing the dead feeling is fading as she is further from the stump, and that's a relief- "What do you mean?" she asks, voice hoarse, rolling her head to look at him, strawberry blond hair lank and messy, the back matted with clotting blood and more dirt. Dirt, god, enough of the dirt.

"Scott and Liam... they fought. Stiles had to save his Dad from Theo. And Malia is god knows where- something about the Desert Wolf again, I don't know, it was chaotic."

"Sounds like it," she mutters, as he helps her stand, eyes unfocused still, and she's in the passenger's seat before she knows it, being driven further from that awful, terrible, sinking feeling of the former burial ground, the dead vacated their last resting place some terrible manner. It's just wrong- as a Banshee, she knows it inherently, and as a Hellhound, she's sure he can feel it, somewhere inside, too. 

"It's going to be okay, Lydia," Parrish says, setting his hand, piping hot, on hers, and she stares at him for a moment, and imagines him, a fire in his eyes, and his face blank, and feels kindred- she understands that feeling, the faded hours, the lost time, and then she smiles, forced, and she thinks hard enough to lie to him, when she answers. 

"I know it will be," she says, "I'm sure of it."

Well, the lie was there, but it wasn't ever going to sound convincing, in the first place.


End file.
